Stephen Irwin - The Dead Path

Police arrived at the Gerlic residence. The sight of a clergyman set the room at ease. Nicholas and Pritam were thanked together and questioned separately. One female officer was questioning Hannah without success: Hannah simply screwed up her eyes and shook her head. Another female officer spoke quietly to Mrs. Gerlic, who listened a while then nodded consent. The women took Hannah to the girl’s bedroom. They emerged a few minutes later and Nicholas saw the female officer catch the eye of another uniformed officer-she shook her head. No signs of physical interference.

As the police were wrapping things up, Detective Waller arrived. Her eyes quickly found Nicholas and stayed fixed on him while a female officer brought her up to speed. Then, Waller’s eyes flicked with pendulum precision between him and Hannah. Eventually, Waller nodded thanks to the constable and came to stand beside Nicholas.

“Mr. Close.”

“Detective Fossey.”

“Should I be surprised to see you here?”

Nicholas looked at her. “I don’t think much surprises you, Detective.”

She stared at him for an unsettlingly long while.

“Don’t go too far, Mr. Close.” Then she turned away and rejoined the other officers.

Nicholas drifted to join Pritam. He could see Hannah sitting with a glass of cola, Mrs. Gerlic’s hand gripping her narrow shoulder.

“I don’t know if she’ll be safe,” Nicholas whispered to Pritam.

Pritam looked at him.

“We have a great deal to discuss.”

Nicholas brought Pritam back to the presbytery, and the men made arrangements to catch up there later that evening. Nicholas then kept driving, back to Lambeth Street.

D inner was awkwardly silent, considering how loud it had been to prepare.

Nicholas had sat at the kitchen bench, watching Katharine chop water chestnuts, onion, chicken. Every time he’d started to speak, she’d whacked some ingredient into submission or ground spices in her large granite mortar.

“Want a hand?” he’d yelled.

“No, no,” she’d yelled back brightly, then began throwing diced things into the wok where they shrieked loudly in the sizzling oil.

When they both sat to eat, the silence was so severe that Nicholas didn’t think he had profound enough words to break it. Katharine didn’t seem to feel compelled to; she chewed quietly, shooting the occasional cool smile to him.

“Delicious,” he said finally.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. They were quiet for a long moment, then she added, “I bought a tajine.”

“Oh? Tall, pointy thing?”

“Yes. Haven’t used it yet.”

“Wow. Exotic.”

They ate without speaking again until their plates were clean. It was only when Nicholas made to stand and clear the table that Katharine broke the silence.

“Sit. Please.”

He remained in his chair. Katharine licked her lips, lifted her chin, and tilted her head-her don’t-take-me-for-a-fool look.

“Your sister came up from Sydney,” she said, her words coming brisk and clipped hard. “You two huddle together like twitty schoolgirls. Gavin Boye shoots himself outside my front door. You duck away and find yourself a flat without so much as a thank you. She flies back to Sydney so fast you’d think they were giving away harborside houses. She calls up today, la-di-da, as if nothing’s happened, and then suggests I sell this house and move down to Neutral Bay.”

Nicholas shrugged and inspected the tablecloth. “Neutral Bay is nice.”

He felt her gaze on his face, drawing at his thoughts like a poultice.

“Kids are getting murdered here, Mum.”

Katharine’s hands fussed around the plates, but she said nothing.

“Not just Tris and the Thomas boy,” he continued. “A lot of kids.”

He watched for her reaction.

“I’m no spring chicken,” she said, finally. “I’m not likely to become a victim.”

“Adults, too. That Guyatt chap who killed the Thomas boy. He was from Myrtle Street.”

“He died in prison.”

“Yes. So did Winston Teale, remember? He was a local, too. Wasn’t he?”

Katharine’s fingers stopped moving. “Yes. From over the hill in Kadoomba Road.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“And Gavin Boye. There’s something wrong with this suburb, Mum.”

He could see her eyes narrow. But she didn’t disagree. When she spoke, her tone was even and reasonable.

“If I thought it was safe enough for you to stay here after that terrible business with Tristram Boye all those years ago, why on earth shouldn’t it be safe enough for me now?”

Nicholas wanted to say, Because of the ghosts. Because Quill isn’t dead. She’s alive and living in the woods. She’s murdering again. He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t say any of this to her.

“Or do you blame me for what happened to you down there?” she asked.

Nicholas blinked. “No. Why would I?”

“Because I didn’t keep you safe. Because I was-I don’t know-I was a bad mother. Because I didn’t move when your fa-”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly and she bit down the last word.

“Dad? Dad wanted you to move?”

Katharine stood noisily, picked up the plates and carried them to the sink.

“Donald wanted lots of silly things. That just happened to be one of his rare good ideas.”

Nicholas frowned. His father wanted his family to move? Why? Because Owen Liddy went missing in 1964? Or was there more he knew?

“When?”

“Nicholas! I don’t know.”

“Before he started drinking?”

“A long, long time ago. When we were happy and there was no good reason to move. Okay?” She scraped the plates off with a harsh clatter.

“But there must have been a reason!”

Before he could press the point, the telephone rang in the hallway. Katharine clip-clopped out of the room to answer it. Nicholas sighed and watched her listening as the caller spoke. Then she held the receiver out to him.

“For you.”

He took the phone. It was Laine Boye.

“Sorry to disturb your evening, Mr. Close.” Her voice was so crackly it could have been cast from Mars.

Katharine slipped into the bathroom and started the shower. There would be no more talking about Donald Close and Tallong tonight.

“That’s fine,” replied Nicholas. “Is there… Can I help you?”

“This might sound odd, Mr. Close,” said Laine. “But I need to ask you about a dead bird.”

T he rain thundered down so heavily that Pritam could imagine that space itself was made of water and was now pouring through rents in the sky’s tired fabric.

The three of them sat in the presbytery’s leather club chairs, finishing coffee. The mood was odd. Three very different people, each effectively a stranger to the other two. They had next to nothing in common. A neatly dressed Christian clergyman. A reserved, elegant woman recently widowed. And that long-limbed scarecrow of a man Nicholas Close. Would they ever have gathered were it not for these unusual circumstances? He didn’t think so. Yet they were surprisingly comfortable together. None had a loved one waiting at home for them. All had lost someone close to them recently. Sad, strange events had brought them together, yet there was something warming about each other’s company. Something easy and right, but very fragile-a fine rope across a wide chasm. Each felt it; the silence while they sipped was delicate and none wanted to break it.

After returning from the Gerlics’ house, Pritam had set himself busy to fill the time until Nicholas arrived. He’d mopped out John’s room, cleaned his en suite, found a hundred small excuses not to go into the main church. When he heard a knock at the presbytery door, he had been surprised to find not Nicholas, but Laine Boye. She explained that Nicholas had invited her. Not much later, Nicholas himself arrived. Pritam made coffee, they exchanged small talk, and a silence settled that each recognized as a cue: it was time for serious talk.